Resos:

Wear my hair down more.
Mula banda.
Get back to Berlin.

Therapy.
Refining yogi.
Flying.

Still Not A Player...

Hot weather makes me crave five things: sex, booze, pot, popsicles, and 90's hip hop. The latter is one I have not indulged in for sometime. So, inspired by the massive heat wave we had a while back, I dusted off my cassette collection and proceeded to clean my apartment to a few of the classics: color me badd, boyz2men, salt n' pepa, snoop, dre, etc. There I was: the 5'3'' ginger, scrubbing the floor in my hanes boxers, rhyming along to big punisher's famous last words: 'I'm not a player I just fuck a lot'. The nostalgia was so completely satisfying that I actually fell in love with myself a little.

Playfulness has been the word in yoga class this week. Finding the play, finding the creation. In the practice: even during the struggle of challenging postures. In everyday existence: joyfully moving through the game that is life. Playing. It seems harmless enough. My friend was recently approached by a man who playfully proposed they be fuck buddies. This 40-something divorcee and mother was shocked. Not offended mind you, but shocked...that a 40-something man would assume she (or any other person for that matter) would solely desire sex from someone she hardly knew. "What happened to dinner and a movie? Or just cocktails? Is this what dating is like now??" I had to bite my tongue. I was reluctant to admit that my longtime favor for a heartfelt gambler like pun was more than just a crush, that I could make my own cocktail before sex, and that movies just get in the way. I just nodded sympathetically and hoped that the conversation wouldn't burn a slutty scarlet letter into my chest. Apparently, not everyone likes a player.

The thing is, I remember when games were fun and playing was cool. Candyland, Twister, poker...strip poker...Life was a smorgasbord of options. Now, we play so many games that we have forgotten how to be for real. Somehow, lighthearted human play has begun to questionably flirt along the border of total disregard, and I'm wondering where the line is. Is it a line, or is it more like a fucked up triangle? A triangle between playing, being real, and playing for real.

My acupuncturist recently prescribed me some herbs for my heart. According to her it has become too cold energetically, causing everything to slow down, and my whole system to freeze over. You know, kind of like hell? Now it was my turn to be shocked. Me? A cold heart? That seems highly unlike this warm loving lioness who's daily experiences are constantly ruled by her fourth chakra. I took the herbs, but was silently hoping it was a gross misdiagnosis. Later that day, any doubt in my mind was squandered by my yoga teacher who continuously corrected my "rigid heart center" while also praising me for moving "organically". Her comments, confusing and curiously contradictory, pushed me into a full blown panic, where I began to formally consider that this cold hearted thing might just come naturally. I wanted to blame my computer, blame cigarettes, blame snoop...but there was no denying the reality, that my dysfunctional love for the game, was causing my heart center to malfunction.

As I dauntingly pondered the possible side-effects of my condition, an irritatingly stereotypical phrase weaseled it's way into my life: "Don't let the good one pass you by." I suddenly became livid at this statement: a pathetic, fearful, anti-feminist perspective on love's ridiculously portrayed probabilities. I lashed out at the cliche advice: Why? What would happen? Would the world suddenly come crashing down? Besides, if it's that good wouldn't I notice? I also openly despised the dangerously placed implication of waiting. What's with the waiting? Who's waiting? Any bitch who waits needs to get a job, a hobby, a blog...I rolled my eyes and spat at the suggestion: I'm too busy playing life to be concerned about missing out, betting poorly, or to even consider that anything good enough would let me pass him by. Mostly I just think it's bullshit, but I also loathe the sentence because it has continued to haunt me all week. Is it really that easy, and should it be that easy, for us to loose out on an emotionally profitable result, because we waited too long to toss the dice?

It's this kind of over-processed guilt that really kills a players mojo.

I've discovered that most of us who play aren't trying to be disagreeable, we just strive to continually exist in that very superficial vein of contentment. The one that makes me fall in love with old school melody, sunny days, and every other person who walks by. I wonder if we live in this vein, not just because we like to play, but because we are too proud, or even afraid, to truly gamble. Or maybe we've already gambled on that "good" seemingly sure thing, only to lose everything. Risking it all at once could be pricey. One bad call could destroy this placid fantastical world of magic, sport, and free-spirited lovin' (holla). It could inevitably cost a whole heart, leaving us to wander the world, taking herbs and practicing yoga to heal us: a futile attempt at repairing the damage, only to salvage merely half of whatever modest fortune we had before. Perhaps it is simply a matter of what the wager is worth. Maybe, players only play, because we will only settle the game for the real thing.

10 Things I'm Really Psyched About...

Because what would the world be like without my "humble" opinions...?

1. Nettle: So, when I am an old hip auntie telling stories of my 20's, the past four to six months of my life will be known as "Seasons of Sick: Epic Tales of Allergies (and other various illnesses)".  After spending the entire spring and most of this summer battling the virus that just wouldn't die, I decided I just couldn't take it anymore. I was so sick of being sick that I thought I might have to move to some far-away, toxin free oasis, where I would live like Julianne Moore in that movie "Safe".

During a rehearsal I laid there on the floor...in my bronchitis, rhinoviral ridden state...ready to give up...and surrender to the reality that I am just not meant to be well...ever again. It was then that my friend Ana (now known as: my amazing healer-friend Ana) dropped a bag of this dried green herb in my lap and informed me with confidence that it would rock my world. Skeptical that the mystery substance (of which I was secretly hoping was just mercy pot) would be powerless over my immune system (er...lack there of)...but delirious and still desperately holding on to the daydream of wellness...I gave the shit a shot. I mean, what the hell? I was willing to try anything at this point.

Sure enough, this weed: responsible for the many painful rashes of my youth, worked it's magic and is now my morning ritual. Before the coffee, yoga, or even the candy I like to eat for breakfast, I brew some nettle tea. Being the low maintenance woman that I am, I use the handy pre-packaged tea bags (bulk, for all those resourceful people out there, is available at Rainbow). Even though it tastes like grass and kind of smells like manure, it's changed my fucking life. Please stop the madness and go get some NOW. Not only for your benefit--but also for the benefit of those around you...who are constantly infected with your monster viruses.

2. Lustre: It's official: The 2nd and last Wednesday of every month, our good friend Marcus (a well-loved barkeep at my former favorite misfit hangout-Amber) hosts the tunes for this sceney event at the Transfer on Church and Market (think 80's goth-glam rock meets new wave). The fun starts around 10pmish and continues until bar close.  I know, just what SF needs...a new dance party inspired by an era of fabulous drugs and unfortunate dress codes. It has promise, but needs some serious dancers to pack the floor and throw it down. It also needs some serious bass, but I've already put the request in. So put on your red lipstick, your black fishnets, throw some bangs in your face, and meet me for a martini already.

3. Thieves Tavern (former Hush Hush): My new favorite bar on 14th and Guerrero (yea I tend to stick to the same 6 block radius). It's a dive to enter...I've actually seen people duck to get through the door. Sound system is decent (bass-but I would love another speaker), two pool tables for those who care to (um...I don't play pool so no side comment here) and the shiniest bar I've seen in...probably ever. The bartenders: friendly but just abusive enough to keep me coming back. Drinks are cheap, especially on "ladies night"...which also scandalously falls on "my Friday". The art sucks, the jukebox doesn't, and sometimes I can get a bloody mary. Just a warning: a couple months ago I met I guy I'm pretty sure was a serial killer. He claims to be a regular but I haven't seen him since (creepy). Other than him this place is great.

4. Halou: I've repeated the name of this band to people so many times in clarification-that I'm beginning to wonder if I didn't make this group up. So, to confirm their existence-I saw them perform at Cafe Du Nord recently-and to my relief (whew) they are not a figment of my imagination and they kick just as much live as they do on my boom box (yea...I typed boom box and I meant it). Halou is down-tempo electro rock. Backed by a sweet bass and lead by a sexy red-headed voice that sounds like the freakish lovechild of Bjork and Portisehead. Totally hot and beyond worth the ten bucks I spent on a personally autographed CD for um...my boom box.

5. Shiva: As a kid, I used to sneak into my brother's room, read his comics, and get lost in pages of heroes and super-villains. When he would catch me I'd persuade him to barter, and I'd offer up my Barbie collection in exchange. He would immediately turn down my lame girl toys in one repulsed gesture, yell at me for invading his space, and then let me stay and build things out of Legos. Legos were an intense item for this "cool toy" deprived girl. To me: they were power. I would spend all this time building an elaborate city out of the bold colored plastic blocks, just to smash it to pieces, and start over with some new exciting dream kingdom.
This is how I understand Shiva to work (the main topic of my most recent yoga classes): creating to destroy...destroying to create...and all the endless options in between. It's the ultimate thrill really...taking a wrecking ball to your life just to see how you come out of the rubble. Damn, I think I just heard the faint and distant sound of Saturn returning...

6. Summer Finale: Um...hotties, booze, fun and sun to culminate two seasons spent sick indoors with tea?? Please refer back to 1, 5, 7, and 9. There's no need to explain myself here.

7. Acupuncture: During the course of my immune system meltdown, I decided I needed more than just vitamins and sleep, I needed an exorcism. Tired of entering my sick days into our database, my co-worker from the finance department passed me on to her witch-doctor (er...TCM Practitioner) by the name of Shamsi. She took one look at my tongue, felt my pulses (apparently...we have more than one??) and proceeded to put me through 2 months of rigorous needle treatments backed by heavy doses of ridiculously potent herbal supplements. Not that wimpy health store shit mind you, but serious hard core Chinese potions that actually had me so fucking high at one point, I thought I was invincible. It has taken some damn serious dedication to give up (er..cut back) on my five favorite food groups: coffee, chocolate, booze, sex, and smokes, but this healer was able to remove most of my demons. Now, I see her once or twice a month. I'm a lot less cooler than I used to be, but I'm also a lot less sick.

8. The Diving Bell and the Butterfly: Probably the most beautiful film I've seen in a good minute. It changed my fucking world. Just go rent it.

9. Not Smoking: So, I've been considering my year in random immunity complications, blowing it off as too much stress/alcohol, and not enough sleep/nutrients...I can no longer deny the role that smoking plays in the ever dramatic saga of my health. Now, to be totally clear, I don't have smokers guilt--I love smoking--I think it's fucking great. Tastes great, feels great, and I would never dare waste a cigarette crying about how it's "bad" for me. Cause, let's face it, EVERYTHING is bad for you these days. Every time I turn around there's something else that's gonna kill me. If it's not cancer it's a gun or meth or an earthquake. However, it occurred to me that I could possibly enhance the satisfaction of my smoking experience--if I experienced it less. This cutting back, or "pro-longed foreplay" as I'm referring to it, will also hopefully benefit my poor pathetic excuse of an immune system by giving it a fucking break.

10. Blogging: To back up my opening line? The opportunity to develop my extremely amateur writing abilities, for free, along with all the other hip trendy yupster wannabe "writers" in the world is just too good to pass up. Ah, to be young, cool, and self-absorbed in SF.

Grumpy Old Men

The worst part about this whole PMS process (for me) is the part when I get so depressed I could vomit. Suddenly I'm on this nauseating boat ride for hours...days....that viciously rocks me into a delirious frenzy, only to leave me wasted: ship-wrecked on a deserted island where there is no iron, no chocolate, and no love. Usually, I scoff at the cliche notion of writing anything that could be considered even remotely cult female (spare me the vagina monologues please). However, under today's trying circumstances, my monologue goes more like this: you can blow me, I'm writing about this shit.

This rant is more than just a symptom of erratic hormones. It's a selfish blog, functioning as relief for my currently chaotic mental temperament that can't seem to get a clear thought out in one piece. Fucking focus! If I could somehow master this inner bitch I could probably write a better-selling novel. Unfortunately, due to the increasingly dramatic seasickness, I will throw up on my blog spot instead.

Worse than a grumpy young woman in the midst of her cycle...are the tragically jaded older men she chooses to hang out with. There once was a time when I completely adored 30-something guys. They were like really cool cowboys: curiously intoxicating with their faded denim, Marlboro smokes, and tall tales of a lifetime on the range. They enticingly held an album of bad habits I had never heard of before, worked with a far more extensive back stock of historical reference than their twenty-something competitors, and sported the sobering realism to go with it all. It was sexy, and I was hooked.

Now, as I creep toward 30 myself, their tall tales are reading more like sad stories. Pathetic stories told by broken-down donkeys that used to be race-horses: chewing hay and remembering the good old days when they were actually datable, lovable, and romantically inspired. It seems their dysfunctional hearts are suffering from too many years of the rugged lifestyle, and their realism reeks like a bad past...rotting in the garbage. I'm starting to question if these refined, seasoned, worldly fellows aren't much more than discount antique dudes, who are in desperate need of big fat doses of Viagra for their souls.

It's too bad really. Somewhere along the relationship time-line, feelings have become prohibited to the brink of extinction (a problem that I believe to be an unfortunate side-effect of the grossly epidemic hipster movement), and nobody dares to give a shit. Nobody except the grumpy young women who are left to attempt the bold task of piecing the world back together. We do our yoga, we write our blogs, fuck we even compost...in order to "find ourselves" and make life a safe, emotionally sound, drama-free environment where love is welcome and real. Then some misfit cowboy comes along, shits on our little parade of hopeful possibility, and reminds us once again...that it's not cool to care.

Perhaps, in an effort to stop the cycle of flakiness, I should give up one of my own bad habits: attractive ex-wranglers who've lost their mojo for life. It's enough to put up with myself...my grumbling, whiny, irritable self for a whole miserable week and then bleed painfully. Just the thought of tolerating mouthfuls of dusty drama dished by burned-out storytellers is simply too much to stomach for the afflicted female, with her own rock star fairy-tale to live through, survive, and be jaded over in my 30s.

Maybe I will just write about cows.

Fuck Me Like a Burger...

I recently had my first red meat in five years (by recommendation of my acupuncturist) in the form of a very over-sized hamburger. It was 1/2 pound of 100% Niman Ranch ground beef, perfectly cooked (like I know what that is), seeping with grease, and topped with a number of extravagant garnishings (fuck yea avocado). It was messy as all hell to eat. I couldn't get the damn thing to sit still in my hands. However, I managed to devour the entire meal...and some of my girlfriends curly fries.

It was done: I had found the missing link to my nutritional bliss. After many months of feeling as though I had misplaced my mojo, and constantly questioning what magical additive could restore the integrity of my life (a new bed? a new adventure? some sugar?) I had an epiphany: All I needed was some good old fashioned lovin'...in the form of expertly grilled animal flesh.

The whole experience was so much to process, that I wonder how the usual carnivores do it? How do they eat an intense piece of meat like that and be ready for more the next day? Even the next meal?? I understand they have grown accustomed to a certain level of protein, iron, cholesterol, and all that. However, I think there is more to this minutely predatory act than just those minor details. Consuming this burger was like eating life-force. Fucking qi and shit. Yup, some cow's qi went straight into my veins and made me feel like I could fly.

After I flew home (and indulged in some M&M's) I crawled into bed and fell into a deep, euphoric, bovine-induced coma. The sweet contented slumber of a woman who just got seriously fucked. It's a dramatic but honest comparison: eating this meat appeased my appetite almost as much as a good hard orgasm. In fact, had you put a man in front of me at that burger joint, slathered him in BBQ sauce, I may not have known the difference. Yes, this proverbial meat patty, was much needed sex, for my metabolic libido.

So what's there to do after a burger like that? Have another one. Yes, sometime next week I will be grossly spoiling myself in, what I estimate to be, a monthly excursion in carnivorous dining. In the meantime, I might have to go find man, in order to satisfy my craving for beef.